The Christmas Present
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The evidence elf is at it again.


Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: **I was listening to the John Gorka recording of Longfellow's 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' and this came of it. It's an AU version of 'Hate the Picture, Love the Frame' (script by Erica Byrne).

(The betas get the weekend off. Many thanks to them for all their kind services this year.)

**The Christmas Present**

by L.M. Lewis

**McCormick**:_I'm running all over town, trying to bail out a retired judge, and you're running a legal workshop for gorillas. I thought you might have been dead by now._

**Hardcastle**:_Sorry to disappoint you._ (Scene 77 'Hate the Picture, Love the Frame')

00000

He handed Tommy the twenty, discreetly folded, on his way out of the jail yard. One part of him was cringing at even this slight deviation from the Hardcastle Code, another was altogether versed in the realities of prison life. Tommy Barker was a good guy, but it didn't hurt to spread a little Christmas cheer.

As for himself, his visit with Hardcastle behind bars had stripped him of what was left of his holiday spirit. It didn't help that the judge seemed to be adapting to incarceration. Mark suspected it was partly a good front, that or the man was oblivious to the potential danger, and either way the hazards were just as real.

He climbed into the Coyote, settling down into the seat and casting one last look over his shoulder at the foreboding outer wall of the jail complex. A dangerous enough place for anyone, and doubly so for someone with as many enemies as Hardcase had.

He could add one more to the list—Martin Cherney, the man whose name the judge had gleaned from Granger's file, the guy who'd most likely landed Hardcastle in this joint. Mark wondered if that was the plan in its entirety, or if there was an endgame, yet to come.

He had the name, but he also had Hardcastle's admonition from earlier that day: 'Stay out of trouble.'

"Get him out of there," he muttered to himself as he turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine turn over and roar to life. He only had a couple of possibilities left on his list of bail bondsman, and he hadn't saved the best for last. "Get him out . . . and then we can go after this Cherney guy."

00000

Three bail shops and three 'no's later, he had to admit defeat. He wasn't getting the judge out tonight by any means less than a helicopter and a submachine gun, and somehow he didn't think he'd get any approval, even after the fact, on an operation like that.

He stared down at the last of the crossed-off names on his rumpled list, then, after a moment of reflection, turned the paper over and studied the other name he'd written there. Martin Cherney, the guy Hardcastle figured was Mr. Big. Alan Granger, the minnow, was already on alert—having spent the afternoon in the police station answering questions, but Cherney probably wasn't even breaking a sweat.

Mark headed for home. He suspected there was a file in the basement with Cherney's name on it, maybe even a local address. It wouldn't hurt to look. Looking wouldn't even count as a parole violation.

He comforted himself with that notion all the way home. The stillness of the place as he let himself in, the unlit tree, the tape still on the floor—he and Hardcastle had avoided the den since the murder—it took him almost by surprise again. He hesitated for a moment before he stepped into the room. He stared down at the outline for a moment, and then leaned over and yanked the pieces up, wadding them and carrying them all the way back to the kitchen to be disposed of, out of sight but not yet out of mind.

He shook his head sharply. It was a silly waste of time but he felt better for having done it. He didn't like to think he was stalling.

He headed down into the basement, flicking on the switch in the file room and pausing for a moment. He couldn't remember ever coming down there by himself. This was Hardcastle's domain and the drawers were locked. That part had slipped his mind. Violation number one would come earlier in the process than he'd realized.

He didn't even bother to go back to the gate house for his tools. He didn't need to; Hardcastle had the necessities of homeownership in a small work area in the basement. He borrowed what he needed from there and made short work of the drawer labeled 'C-D'. Cherney's file was a quarter of the way back and not particularly thick. He pulled it and brought it to the table.

No mention of Alan Granger in there. A couple of photos of Cherney, though, and a local address among some other information that looked current. Mark sat back in his chair. As Rubicons went, this one was pretty deep, and if he got swept up in the current, it might well land him in a cell next to Hardcastle—which would do neither of them any good.

On the other hand, doing nothing was grating on McCormick's nerves, and what would be the harm in looking? The address was just over in Santa Monica.

It only took a moment or two of self-persuasion and fifteen minutes more of preparation—tools and clothing. He convinced himself that this was still just reconnoitering—no actual decision had yet been made, though he thought if a cop pulled him over and searched him, in his present get-up and in possession of the picks, things would be pretty dark.

No matter, his conscience was so far clear. The drawer locks hardly counted in the bigger scheme of things. He had at least up till now, per Hardcastle's request, stayed out of trouble.

00000

It was a medium-sized office building in a section of Santa Monica that was Christmas Eve deserted—no residential units and no nearby nightlife to speak of. Mark wondered if they'd even given the security guy the night off. If not, it seemed likely that he was kicking back and taking it easy in some quiet corner of the building.

Mark wasn't sure when the decision to proceed had been made. He suspected it had been a long time before he'd admitted to it and at least as far back as the point where he'd emptied his pockets of all loose or jangling things, and anything else that might fall out and prove evidentiary later on. Old tricks of the trade, not that it had ever been _his_ trade—he prided himself on having kept his amateur status—but good workmanship was always a plus.

He got inside with a minimum of fuss and only one nervous moment dealing with an alarm system. He confirmed the suite number on the board near the elevator, and then cautiously took the stairs. Not a sound besides his own light tread on the steps, the upstairs corridor was dim and deserted.

'Cherney Enterprises'—the sign on the door to the office suite proclaimed. Obviously Martin Cherney was relaxed about his past endeavors. It had the look of an above-board business operation. There was an average lock on the door and no other precautions.

He worked it efficiently, spurred by the desire to get out of the hallway as quickly as possible. The snick of the lock giving way was followed by a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and a hasty step inside. He reset the lock just in case he was mistaken about the dozing security guard. It would be beyond careless to be caught by someone diligently checking doorknobs.

He surveyed the outer office—secretary's territory and not the place where anything incriminating would be kept. As if to confirm his suspicions, the door to Cheney's inner sanctum was also locked, this time with something of better quality. He suspected there would have been an alarm system, too, except that Cherney was not the kind of guy who could avail himself of routine security services and their police back-up.

It occurred to Mark that he'd actually gotten better at lock picking in the past year. More practice. He smiled to himself. This one would have been a challenge to him a few years back, but now opened after some efficient persuasion.

The room was elegantly modern, with only a plant or two to offset the starkness. He moved through it by flashlight, held in a gloved hand. He headed for the desk drawers first.

He'd found not much of interest until he was deep in the bottom drawer—scraps of paper, nothing filed. It looked to be the catch-all and one of them was a note on unbusinesslike paper—pale blue with daisies along the right side. It caught his eye, not that the handwriting was particularly legible, but the signature, followed by a dabble of x's and o's, most definitely read 'Ashley'.

There were lots of Ashleys out there, but not all that many who Cherney and Granger could lean on in a hurry to help out with a frame job. He supposed even Mr. Big could have an occasional lapse and forget to destroy some evidence, but it wouldn't do Hardcastle much good once it was removed from this drawer, even if the handwriting was identical to Ashley Austin's. He shook his head regretfully and put the note back where he'd found it. _Maybe later on, with a search warrant . . .. _

He was lost in that hopeful thought when he became aware of a sound. It might have been the dutiful night watchman checking the doorknob, but it quickly progressed beyond that to a key in the outer lock. He felt a brief rush of adrenalin-fueled panic, and then was up on his feet, resetting the lock on the inner door and moving quickly to open the one kitty-corner to it. A closet, not locked, with only a few boxes on the floor and some empty hangers dangling from a coat hook. He was inside, door closed, before he heard the second door opening.

There were footsteps in the inner office and Mark thought for a moment that the next thing would be a stop to hang up a coat, but the new arrival was apparently not settling in for long. There was some impatience—drawers being opened and closed, the phone picked up and set down, the creaking of leather as the person sat down in the desk chair.

More sounds from further off, a voice, hesitant. "Mr. Cherney?" The inner door opened again.

"Here." Cherney sounded impatient, dissatisfied, and dangerous.

The other occupant of the room seemed to share Mark's opinion. He cleared his throat with some hesitance and then said, "Blatt was supposed to be good."

A grunt, apparently from Cherney. "'Good', huh? And he lets Hardcastle knock him out cold? That's _good_? Now they'll question him, too."

"Roy is a stand-up guy.."

"You better hope his is, Granger. He can tag you, I suppose."

There was nothing audible from the other man for a moment. Then he finally said, "But the word is Hardcastle's in the hospital, too."

Mark caught himself in a sharp intake of air. He tried not to lean forward.

"You've got someone else?" It was Cherney again, sounding even more impatient.

Granger must have nodded.

"You'll need two of them. I want Hardcastle _and_ Blatt taken care of. I want it done right this time."

"Blatt's still in the infirmary. That shouldn't be too hard. Hardcastle'll be even easier—they took him out by ambulance. Looks like St. Mary's. I've got somebody on it already."

Mark thought they ought to be able to hear his heart pounding, even through the closet door. He was a few seconds from bursting out, ready to rely on the element of surprise, but Cherney was obviously on his feet again, moving around.

"Done right," he growled. "Both of 'em. They've cost me enough. I'm going to have to close this operation down for a while. You'll need to make yourself scarce, too. No loose ends. _None_."

"Got it," Granger said, with audible relief in his voice. That he could feel it when things were so clearly at a dangerous pass, was a clear testimonial to how much of the danger came from Cherney himself.

But that was evidently past. Granger must still have had some usefulness to his boss. He was being dismissed. Two sets of footsteps were moving past the closet and out the door. Mark had frozen, not even breathing, for the moment it took them to depart. Some part of him still wanted to try to take them from behind, no matter that both of them were probably armed. But his wiser judgment realized that the wheels were already in motion, and even on the long shot that he_could_ take them both, it would only slow him down.

He heard the second door close with an emphatic tug. He stepped out into the cooler air and wiped his forehead, his vision now well adjusted to even limited light. He grabbed the receiver of the phone. He held it for a moment, staring down at the dial and wondering who he should call. Lieutenant Giles? He glanced at his watch. It was after nine P.M. He didn't know the man's home phone number. St. Mary's seemed like a more promising possibility, though he doubted anyone would give him any information over the phone or necessarily believe a word he said.

He put the receiver back gently and slipped out the door, not bothering to lock up this time. He was in too much of a hurry and, anyway, he doubted if anyone was coming back.

00000

The emergency room lobby at St. Mary's was crowded. There were a few recognizable faces amid the chaos and those were all police officers. Giles was there, conferring in the corner with a guy Mark didn't know.

"How is he?"

Mark's sudden interruption made Giles look up. He dismissed the other man with a hurried wave of his hand and turned fully to McCormick.

"I was trying to reach you," he said sharply.

"Still making the rounds," Mark said. "Bail bondsmen," he added quickly and then, without giving Giles any time to doubt, "What happened? Is he okay?"

"He should be. He was stabbed, once. There was some bleeding inside they said, so they took him up to the OR, But the doc said his blood pressure and everything were okay. Hell, he took the other guy out with a fire extinguisher."

Mark felt himself shaking slightly, now that he was hearing the details. He plunged both hands deep into his jacket pockets. "Still in surgery?"

"Yeah," Giles glanced down at this watch, "'bout an hour now. They said it'd be at least that, even if they didn't have much to fix." The lieutenant frowned. "How'd you know to come here? I didn't even know where they were taking him when I left that message for you."

Mark swallowed hard. It'd been a while since he'd had to work on a spur of the moment alibi.

"Word got out—"

"Dammit—those news guys," Giles muttered. "I told them to keep a lid on it. I was hoping to keep Granger in the dark for a while."

"Granger and Cherney . . . Martin Cherney," Mark said with a note of emphasis. "Hardcastle was pretty sure Cherney's the guy at the top on this one. You know about him?"

"Milt mentioned him. The connection seemed pretty thin."

"He's got an office over in Santa Monica." Mark slipped it in deftly. "Saw the address in a file on him back at the estate. I think you might want to get a warrant for the place."

Giles was squinting at him. "Probable cause, got any?"

"Hardcastle said there's a picture in Granger's file of the two of them together."

Giles didn't look overwhelmed. He must've had that pointed out to him earlier.

Mark sighed. "I heard Granger and Cherney talking together tonight; that's how I knew the judge was attacked. That's how I knew to come _here_."

The lieutenant looked more convinced this time, but his squint had gone to a frown. "Am I supposed to ask _where_ you overheard this conversation?"

Mark sighed. "Not unless you want to end up giving me Hardcastle's bunk."

"No," Giles said firmly, and then, after a pause, "but you _do _have a notion of what probable cause is?"

"Yeah," Mark said glumly, "that's lecture 207-b; I usually hear it on meatloaf nights."

He paused, knitting his brows. "Cherney's secretary, find out who she is, haul her in and tell her obstructing a criminal investigation could get her six months. Show her a picture of Ashley Austin and ask her if she ever visited Cherney's office. Find out if he got letters written on stationary with daisies on it and then send someone over to Ms. Austin's old apartment. I think you're going to find some paper there like that."

Giles was giving him a dry, considering look.

"Bottom drawer, right hand side, Cherney's desk," Mark said, sounding pretty dry himself. "Near the bottom. It's just a note but it's signed 'Ashley'."

Giles smiled. It was thin and only a little judgmental. "Just what I wanted for Christmas. Do you do this all the time for him?"

Mark was too weary for indignation but he did mutter, "That other time was mostly _his_ idea . . . at least the confessing part was."

"Well, this is progress; he's practically got you confessing all on your own."

"You didn't read me my rights—"

"You haven't been arrested."

"Can we try and keep it that way?" Mark asked warily.

There was no chance for an answer. A woman in blue scrubs had come through the door from the treatment area and was heading toward them. It was obviously someone Giles had spoken to earlier. He turned his full attention toward her.

"It went well," the woman said, managing a brief, satisfied smile, "and Doctor Kepler will talk to you up in the surgical waiting area."

Giles was smiling more broadly. "I've got leads to track down."

Mark cut a quick glance at the woman, and then refocused on Giles. "He needs protection; Cherney said they're going to try again."

"I've got a guy up there now. Milt's still under arrest you know," Giles said. "It'll save us some time if they _do _try something."

Mark didn't look very satisfied.

"Okay," Giles sighed. He looked around the lobby, then snapped his finger in the direction of another uniformed officer of the large and intimidating variety. "Daniels," he said, getting the man's attention, then, in aside to McCormick, "Three of you are enough, I hope."

Mark nodded.

"Okay," Giles turned to his newly arrived reinforcement. "Close watch on Judge Hardcastle. There may be another attempt tonight."

The officer nodded, looking serious.

"And this guy is the only one who gets to visit." Giles said with a jerk of his thumb in McCormick's direction. "Got that?"

"There," Giles said to Mark, "you happy? I've got some fancy writing paper to track down."

Mark wasn't sure if happy was the right word; that might have to wait until he saw Hardcastle with his own eyes. Barely satisfied would have to do, but he thought maybe that was pushing his luck with the lieutenant, so he tried a quick nod of his own and turned toward the elevators that the woman was pointing out.

"Second floor," she said briskly, "turn right."

00000

The surgeon was waiting for them, and kept it brief, looking eager to return to what was left of his Christmas Eve. The news was mostly good—no nicks in the bowel, only small bleeds and all of that under control. The patient was doing well and was expected to make a full recovery.

It might have been McCormick's visible relief—Kepler seemed to have thought he was speaking to the authorities rather than someone with a more personal interest.

"You're not with the police?" the surgeon asked, frowning as though he was reviewing what he'd said. "Family?"

Mark shook his head without trying to explain further. "When can I see him?"

The doctor cast a quick look over at Daniels, who looked somewhat detatched. There was a sudden dawn of something that might have been enlightenment.

"Ah, his _lawyer_."

Mark squelched a sudden urge to grin, deciding it must be a sign of fatigue. He said nothing to discourage the misimpression, figuring lawyers were farther up the list than sidekicks. He heard no objection from Daniels, either, which seemed curious.

"As soon as he's settled in the room. He'll probably sleep for a while and he might not be making much sense."

"Never has," Mark replied quietly.

"Back out in the hall, left, the B elevators, up to the sixth floor. They'll tell you which room."

They took their leave. They hadn't gotten far before Mark turned to his escort.

"Thanks," he said. "I mean, for the non-interference back there."

"Lieutenant Giles says you get to visit, so you get to visit." Daniels smiled but it quickly drifted into a more serious expression. "Hardcase goes after some pretty heavy guys. Always did. It's wrong what they did, putting him inside."

"You're telling me," Mark said, almost under his breath but with heartfelt sincerity.

Daniels punched the elevator button. He was giving him an odd look, verging on disbelief. "You're that ex-con he took in, right?"

Mark winced, but nodded as he stepped into the elevator. He wondered if that fact had somehow just dawned on the officer, and if he'd have to reinvoke Gile's instructions. But the officer's comment was only followed by a half-grunt and a shake of the man's head. "I heard about it, but I thought it sounded pretty screwy."

The doors closed behind them and they ascended slowly. They were almost to the sixth floor before Mark's indignation got the better of him.

"It's not _that_ screwy. Like you said, he's brought down some pretty heavy guys."

The doors opened. Mark shot his companion a sharp look, what he got in return was mystification.

"Not_ him_," Daniels said. "He's always been Hardcase. Hell, my dad even talked about him. That's just how he is." The officer fixed him with a steady stare. "_You _were the part I didn't get."

Fortunately, they'd reached the desk, because Mark didn't get it either, and he sure as hell didn't want to have to admit that to someone he'd just met fifteen minutes earlier.

The ward clerk seemed to take their arrival in stride. "He's in 628," she pointed down the hall. They could see another officer, stationed outside the room looking bored.

"Clue him in," Mark said to Daniels. He glanced around the otherwise quiet floor. "This is real. A very heavy guy wants him dead."

The officer nodded. He took the man at the door aside for a conference. Mark slipped past them, knocking quietly before he entered the dimly lit room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and before they had, a voice from the direction of the bed muttered, "Not more poking."

"No, not that you don't deserve it," Mark said with a lopsided grin of relief, "for scaring me like that. Shoulda had 'em throw you in P.C. right from the start. I don't know what they were thinking, letting you run around loose in the general population like that," he added with severity, pulling up a chair alongside the bed. "You're a menace. I hear the other guy says you picked the fight with him."

"I had thirty years on him," Hardcastle grumped, "and he had a_ knife_."

"We call 'em 'shanks' in the big house. You better start studying up, Hardcase." Mark shook his head slowly. There was hardly a pause and then he asked, "How you doing?"

"Okay . . . groggy."

"Just sleep. Everything's okay. The doc said you did fine."

"This isn't the prison infirmary."

"Nope. Real surgery. A real hospital. Besides, I think they finally got a clue that maybe putting ex-judges in with their ex-customers is a bad idea."

"You're awfully cheerful. You got my bond?"

"Nope," Mark said, easing back in his seat. He was feeling better, partly because he could see with his own eyes that Hardcastle was mostly okay, partly because he thought he'd made some pretty good dents in the frame. But he wasn't sure he wanted to discuss either of those things with the judge right now.

"Sleep," he said again, and for once the old donkey listened.

00000

He must have slept, too, if only for a short while. He awoke to a tapping on the door. Hardcastle's eyes stayed closed, and he looked as though he was resting comfortably.

Mark rose and moved quickly to the door, to avoid having the other man awaken. It was Giles, and he stepped outside into the hall at his beckoning.

"Daisies on her stationary," he said with a grin. "Got a warrant for the Cherney office, and got the matching piece from the bottom drawer."

"Pretty fast work for a holiday."

"Well, we haven't made any arrests yet, but it's coming together. Guilt," Giles added with a less open expression. "Even that hard-assed D.A. is feeling like this wasn't our shining moment. Should have the charges against Milt dismissed before the docs are ready to release him."

"Good," Mark said with a sigh of weary relief. "Not that _he_ was ever worried."

"'Course not," Giles said sagely.

"Yeah, well, he believes in the system."

The lieutenant gave him a long steady look and then said, "The system, huh? That might not be the only thing he believes in."

Mark flushed slightly. He was half hoping that in the confusion of surgery and a decent period of less than full consciousness, the ways and means of the investigation might slip through the cracks and be forgotten. Or it might be that results would count for something. Or maybe he'd just throw himself on the mercy of the court.

Giles looked as if he'd wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind. He only ducked his chin in a quick good-night before turning and striding down the hall.

Mark said goodnight to the other two guards and returned to the room. Hardcastle still appeared to be asleep.

Mark stood there a moment finding it hard to believe that it was mostly over, and had turned out all right. Then he heard something, soft and distant at first, then slightly louder. He stepped over to the window and heard it more clearly. It was peal on peal of bells, not a recognizable tune but the joyous changes announcing a holiday.

He looked down at his watch—a gift, and far more reliable than his old one. The new day was less than a minute old.

"Merry Christmas," said a quietly rusty voice from behind him.

"It is." He turned and smiled. "It will be."


End file.
